Life of the Party (Wayward #1)

CHAPTER 62

Detox. Hell. They were synonymous.

I’ve never felt so sick in all my life. So wretched. So desperate for death. Like I was being punished for every moment of happiness the drugs had ever given me, they left my system with exponential agony. I shook and vomited and convulsed and sweat. I cried and cried, sobbing for relief, for help, but no one answered. No one came. I was trapped, all alone in a tiny little room with a single cot bed. Crazy, delirious, overcome. Too sick to think straight.

Fervently I wished for Grey. I wished we were doing this together, that he’d be there with me at the end and all of this would seem like some terrible nightmare. At times I swore he was holding my hand. At times I heard him humming the tune to my song. It was loud in my ears. But when I opened my eyes, no one was there.

I wanted to scream, but it didn’t do any good. No one came. Doctors and nurses would check up on me from time to time, but they offered no solace, no comfort. They’d check my vitals and then, apparently satisfied, leave me alone again. I had no choice but to endure it, to live through the burning, ripping hurt and gut-wrenching, freezing sickness that strained every muscle in my body until I was weak and sore from the effort. There seemed to be no end in sight, no end to the vile torture.

I grit my teeth and bit my lip until it bled. Still the sickness ravaged on. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t be anything but sick. Disgustingly ill. I couldn’t do anything but moan for death. And itch. I don’t know how to describe it, but my very blood felt itchy. I scratched until my skin broke. I lived breath by torturous breath.

“Don’t focus on how lousy you feel. Focus on how much closer you are to getting healthy.” They’d said, before locking me up. It ran over and over in my mind .

“Don’t focus on how lousy you feel….”

Then, there came a morning when I awoke without sweat. Without nausea. I found I could swallow again, that I was warm again. My body ached like I had run a marathon, my muscles stiff and sore. I knew the worst was over, and I was glad.

I was so relieved, at first.

Then I realized I was sober. Like, stone-cold sober. Without the sickness to focus on, I was capable of coherent thought. Competent. I hadn’t been that way in ages.

And then the real pain crashed around me, like cymbals during a crescendo.

It took my breath away. There was nothing I could do, nowhere I could hide, no escape. I clutched my arms around my stomach and gasped, my fingers running through my limp hair as I sobbed into my empty hands.

Grey was gone. Grey was gone, and I was all alone.

“Please, Grey. Please don’t be dead…” I pleaded with the quiet. I shut my eyes and pictured him, hanging on the memory. I imagined him—his gorgeous, handsome face coming through the door into my room, smirking with his cocky grin and shaking his head at me, his blue eyes shining.

“You did it, Mackenzie.” He’d say, his voice velvet in my ears. “I’m so proud of you. You did it, you’re clean…”

The vision made me ache inside. It was just so empty without him.

I was moved from the Detox centre into the rehabilitation wing that day, into my room for the next three long months. I had to share it with another girl, some stranger I’d never met. I trudged along after the orderlies because I had to. I felt no excitement, no enthusiasm. None of me wanted to be there, even with the hard part over.

I sighed as I stepped inside my room—plain, beige, mass-quantity type furnishings adorning the space. There were two twin beds, two dressers, two nightstands, a little adjoining bathroom, and a solitary window in a beige brick wall facing the courtyard, giving me a dismal view of the grey, frozen wasteland beyond, crusted in ice.

The orderly set my suitcase on the bed closest to me, gave me a polite smile, and left.

I sank on the bed and shut my eyes. So, this was sober living.

So far, it sucked.

Since there was nothing else to do, I opened my suitcase and unpacked my things. Two packs of cigarettes sat on the top—a gift from Charlie, no doubt. I was grateful, tearing into them. I missed her. I missed everybody .

I missed Grey.

With a shaky sigh, I moved on to the rest of my belongings. The familiarity of them brought me some comfort but brought me sadness as well. Every one of my possessions had a memory attached to it. I picked up my favourite jeans first; they were old, and threadbare, and comfortable. Grey had doodled on them with a ballpoint pen one day when we were laying in bed and he was working on his lyrics.

That was hard to see. I stroked my finger over the ink, biting my lip as the familiar tears flooded my eyes. I pressed my face against the denim and cried for a little while, but the tears gave me no relief. There was nothing that would fill the emptiness inside me. I was being forced to quit the one thing that could.

Quickly, I unpacked the rest of my stuff, shoving my clothes roughly into drawers, looking at them as little as possible. My diary, the one Marcy gave me for Christmas, was also in the bag. I tossed it into the nightstand, threw my suitcase beneath the bed, grabbed my bag of toiletries, and headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

It felt better to be clean. The pressure wasn’t much, but the water was hot, and I stayed beneath it for as long as I could. The whole time I thought about heroin. There may not have been any left in my system, but that didn’t stop me from craving it. I remembered the feeling, the rush of euphoria it gave me—the numbness, the apathy, the delicious…nothingness. I shut my eyes and pictured myself mixing a batch, sucking it into the needle, feeling the sharp sting as I injected it into my body…

I could leave. I could leave there. I could run out the front doors and catch a cab. Did I have any money? There had to be some around. I could hitchhike home, or just somewhere, anywhere in the city. Some dark back alley. There was sure to be heroin there. In less than an hour, I could get my fix. Riley wouldn’t have to know; he’d never find me. I’d never have to go to jail. Everything would be good again…

Almost breathless with excitement, I towelled off, got dressed and ran a brush through my tangled, wet hair. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be clean. Nothing mattered to me now, nothing but the heroin.

I rushed quickly out of the bathroom, my cheeks flushing nervously. It shouldn’t be too hard to run away. I’d throw on a few sweaters, go for a casual walk down the hallway and sprint out the front doors before anyone noticed. I hadn’t seen a huge amount of security, it’d be hours before anyone realized I was missing. And by that time, I’d already have a needle in my vein…

“You’re thinking of running, aren’t you?”

I whipped around in surprise, slamming my drawer shut as I did so, my cheeks blushing guiltily. “N-no.” I lied.

The girl on the other bed in the room, the one near the window, smiled at me. “Mackenzie, right? I’m Allison. Want to know why it won’t work?” She pointed up at a corner of the room. “Cameras. In the hallways, too. And the front doors are locked from the inside.”

I sat down on the bed, sighing heavily. “How many times did you try?”

“Twice.”

“Stubborn.”

“That’s me.” She grinned.

Alison was pretty, in a hard kind of way. She was the first person I’d ever met—besides Jack Turcotte—who actually looked like a heroin addict. Her short, pixie-cut blonde hair framed glittering blue eyes lined by thick, dark eyeliner. Both her arms sported full sleeves of colourful tattoos. She grinned at me wickedly, and had I met her in different circumstances, I knew we would’ve had a ton of fun together. I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley or something, though.

Allison was a wonderful distraction from the constant burning pain in the pit of my soul. She gave me a tour of the facility, showing me the therapy rooms, the cafeteria, the TV and the games room. There was ping-pong and pool and shuffleboard and a huge flat-screen TV surrounded by faded old couches.

It was an odd atmosphere, like summer camp gone horribly, horribly awry. The air seemed gloomy, thick with struggle, almost. There were people of all types, all ages—every one of them fighting their own battle, everyone with their own story.

Allison told me hers, as we walked.

It started when she tried Oxy at a party. One time, and she was hooked. She did everything she could to get more, going from doctor to doctor, begging for meds, stealing car stereos to afford the pills on the street. When it got too hard to find, too hard to afford, heroin entered the picture.

“Heroin, the poor man’s Oxy. We started sniffing it, and it was good. Really, damn good. Then we started injecting.” Allison sighed fondly. “And never looked back.”

“How old are you?” I wondered. I was desperate for her to keep talking. We made it back to our room and she sprawled out on her bed, cuddling the pillow. I sat on my saggy old mattress, my back against the wall, and looked at her expectantly.

“Nineteen.”

“You’re only a year older than I am. ”

“Yeah?” She looked at me a moment, her blue eyes narrowing. “What’s the deal with you, Mackenzie? When I first saw you, I was like, no, they’ve got the wrong girl. I’d never place you for a heroin addict, not in a million years. You’re too…pure looking.”

Ah…that hurt. Grey had said that about me once…it seemed like ages ago. I pressed a hand against the sudden stab of hurt in my chest, hugging myself around the burning wound, blinking back tears. I turned my face to the wall so Allison wouldn’t notice.

“What’s your story?” She asked.

“It’s not very interesting.” I lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag of delicious smoke, letting it relax me. “I just liked to party. I really liked to party.”

“Go on.” Her blue eyes sparked with interest.

“It started out harmless enough. Weed, Ecstasy, whatever anyone had that weekend. Mushrooms. I did Quaaludes once too. Booze, you know. Typical teenager.” I shrugged. “When I tried cocaine, I thought I’d found the answer. But then heroin came along. And it was…it was like…what I’d been searching for.” I shut my eyes and remembered that first time. Sitting with Grey in the hotel bed, waiting for the waves to crash over us. I remembered holding his hand, resting my head on his chest, being with him. I shook my head. This was a one-way ticket to a meltdown, one I wasn’t eager for Allison to witness.

“It was so good. At first, we tried to be…responsible with it, I guess. But I loved it too much. As soon as I did it, I thought about the next time. If we ran out, I obsessed with getting more. As soon as I had more, I wouldn’t rest until I’d done it.” I looked down at myself. “It was perfect. I’d do heroin when I wanted to relax, cocaine when I wanted some energy. I didn’t realize things were getting so out of control.”

“You always feel like you’re on top of it all, don’t you? Like, it’s no big deal; you’re just having fun; you can quit when you want.” Allison sighed heavily and stared up at the ceiling. “Right now, I’d give anything for some tar.”

“Yeah.” I lit another smoke, but it didn’t quench the craving inside of me, coming from somewhere in the very pit of my stomach, demanding to be fed. I bit my lip and tried to ignore it.

“Well.” Allison yawned. “Looks like story time is over.” She pointed to the clock. “Lights out at ten o’clock.”

“Lights out?” I grinned wryly. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately.” She rolled her eyes .

I grimaced as Allison got up and started getting ready for bed. For some reason, the thought of bedtime made me anxious. Like summer camp again. My parents used to send me to one every year, though I begged and pleaded not to go. I’d always been fine during the day when crafts and canoe rides would distract me…but at night, in the dark, with the quiet pressing in, I’d always been plagued with the heaviest kind of loneliness. Feverish, crippling homesickness.

I felt that way again. I went through the motions normally enough, putting on my pyjamas, brushing my teeth. I crawled under the unfamiliar covers, tried to get comfortable on the old, lumpy mattress. Allison got into bed and reached over to flick the lamp off.

“Goodnight, Mackenzie.”

There was a sudden lump in my throat as the room was blanketed in darkness.

“Goodnight.” I managed.

“I’m glad you’re my roommate. I thought maybe I’d get stuck with some…I don’t know, some lame-o that just wanted to read books all day or something.”

“Are there many book-worm heroin addicts here?”

“No.” Allison laughed. “I guess not.”

I managed a slight smile into the darkness. Allison rolled over.

And then it was quiet.

I tried to talk myself out of it, but the moment there was nothing else to distract me, my mind started racing, like it needed to go over everything I’d been avoiding all day.

As soon as I shut my eyes, I saw his face—Grey’s gorgeous, handsome face, dark and tan, his stubbled cheeks, his perfect lips curved into a constant smirk. His blue eyes shining happily at me, his messy, dark hair.

I bit my lip to stifle a sob. Grey, Grey, Grey…I wish you were here. I wish we were together.

I wouldn’t feel lonely if he were there, holding me in his warm, strong arms. I’d never be sad again. I’d hold his face in my hands and tell him in a hundred different ways how much I loved him. How I needed him, how I couldn’t be without him.

He’d smirk, and he’d kiss me, and then maybe he’d sing me to sleep. His voice a raspy whisper, low and melodic in my ear. I’d hold onto every note like a precious gift from heaven, every fan of his breath against my cheek like the rarest treasure on earth.

It’s hard to stay completely quiet when crying, but somehow I managed it. I didn’t make one noise as the tears streamed from my eyes—my swollen, broken heart pouring out all the overflowing anguish, all the aching hurt, all the injustice. The utter loneliness pulsed through me with every beat. The dark pressed in, the quiet, the strange noises in the unfamiliar blackness, the groaning of the old pipes, Allison stirring quietly in her slumber. Please, let me go to sleep, I beseeched my tortured mind. Let this all be some terrible nightmare. Let me wake up, safe in Grey’s arms.

The night dragged on.

Finally, the first rays of gloomy dawn began to lighten the weary bedroom. The light was a relief to me, and my mind rested enough to allow a few hours of fitful, restless sleep. When I awoke, staring up at the strange ceiling with swollen, puffy eyes, the stark reality hit me. This wasn’t just some nightmare. This was my life now.

Grey was gone. He was never coming back. My life was empty, meaningless, hollow.

And for the third time in only a matter of days, I wished for death.

I fell quickly into a drear, monotonous pattern over the next little while. I had no enthusiasm for anything; I went with the flow, not talking much, not contributing. Just existing. In the morning we’d get up and go for breakfast. Shortly after that came group therapy. I’d give one-word answers if ever asked a question, stubbornly refusing to participate. I wasn’t interested in getting better. I wasn’t interested in anything but getting the hell out of there.

Next came lunch. Allison and I would sit together; sometimes, other girls joined us, but I didn’t bother to learn their names. What was the point? In three months, we’d all go our separate ways, and I’d never hear from them again. I sat silently, eating as much as I could so people would stop thinking I was anorexic.

After that, we had some free time. There were usually scheduled group activities, like cards or games or something, which I went to but wouldn’t get in on—just being there was enough to distract me. Once a week, I had to suffer through an hour or two of one-on-one time with my therapist. This guy was like sixty years old; he reminded me of Blake. I was even more closed up with him than I was at group. He was smug, though—I could tell he kept trying to crack me, like I was a challenge or something.

After supper, we’d usually hang out in front of the big screen. I liked watching TV, it was mindless, a good distraction. But then, when the time started winding down, when people started leaving and it was time to go back to our rooms, the anxiety would start. I knew what awaited me at night—the longing, the sorrow. I would drag my feet the entire way back to our room, trying to prolong the inevitable.

It caught up to me as it always did, and I spent nearly every night sleepless, sobbing silently into my pillow, hoping for an end. If it were possible, I became even more zombie-like, walking around in a trance, heavy purple shadows beneath my eyes .

Through it all, the craving for heroin nagged at me, like a beast—starving, demanding to be fed. Pictures would pop into my head, a syringe full of dark promise, blood squirting into the needle. I’d shut my eyes and try to remember what it was like. What it felt like. Counting down the days until my freedom, when I would leave this place and find a hit as soon as I could. I dreamed about it. It kept me going.

Seventy more days, I’d tell myself. Seventy more days, and it’ll be mine again.